Sang Extrait
by midnightfantasy3
Summary: “Harry,” it said. “Turn around. Face me.” “No!” Harry rasped. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t make him. “Look at me, Harry. Look at me, like your father did. He faced death, so can you.”


Harry felt the cold stone walls of the sepulcher beneath his fingertips. It was rough and did not warm with his touch, for his hands for hands were icy and sweaty. It was dark inside there, and silent, other than the stifled sobs coming from Hermione, whom Harry could feel only inches from himself, and the steady breaths coming from behind him.

He wouldn't look. He refused to look behind him.

His heart was racing rapidly, and he wished he could see Hermione and Ron, but the dark was consuming.

He wouldn't look.

"Harry," it said. "Turn around. Face me."

"No!" Harry rasped. He wouldn't. He couldn't make him.

"Look at me, Harry. Look at me, like your father did. He faced death, so can you."

"NO!" Harry said, with more force now.

"I said LOOK AT ME!" the voice roared.

Harry felt his mind go blank. He was floating away somewhere. Where was he? What was he doing? Oh yes, he was turning around. But turning around to see what?

_Look at me._

Harry began to turn. Oh, it was bliss. But wait? Why was he turning around? What was the purpose?

_Look at me._

Harry stopped. _No_, he thought to himself.

_Turn around. Look at me. _

"NO!" Harry yelled this time.

"You foolish boy!" the voice said.

"I won't!" Harry said, his face burning and his head aching. Hermione was sobbing harder now, and it seemed as though Ron had huddled around her.

"Harry, Harry. I know how dearly these friends of yours mean to you. Look at me, or they die."

Harry felt his stomach drop.

"Turn around, Harry," he heard Ron whisper. "Please."

With every fiber of his being hating himself, hating everything around him, he turned to face him.

"That's a good boy, Harry," the voice said. Then, the voice muttered _lumos_ and a soft light was cast around the small tomb.

Harry was looking face to face with him. He was smiling in a gruesome, sordid sort of manner that made Harry sick to his stomach. He was shaking all over, the fear and anger taking over his body, coursing through his veins like white-hot knives. He glanced over to Ron and Hermione, who were huddled together against a large stone sarcophagus against the wall. Hermione's body was trembling violently. Harry wished more than anything to comfort her, to help Ron, but he didn't want to move. He didn't know what would happen next. So he stood there looking Voldemort in the face, watching as his eyes lit up, clearly contented by what was going on around him.

"You see, Harry, I want you to do one more thing for me before I kill you. My Death Eaters are in need of a potion. This potion contains a specific ingredient that is quite easy to come by, but I think letting you do the honors of collecting it is a fine idea. Don't you?"

Harry said nothing. His hand was clenched tight around his wand.

"Wouldn't you like to know what this ingredient is? And how you'll be retrieving it?"

Again, Harry said nothing.

"It's very funny, I think. It will bring me great amusement." Voldemort let out a bursting, high-pitched laugh that rang through Harry's ears like a deadly bell chime.

Harry's pulse quickened again. He was starting to feel panic coming upon him, and he didn't want Voldemort to speak again. He was dreading to hear more about his task.

"The ingredient I'm in need of his human blood. I've taken my share of blood from you, Harry, but the fun in this is that you'll be taking the blood from your friends over there. Three chalices each, into this cauldron." He waved his wand, and a large black cauldron appeared beside him.

Harry paled and his eyes widened, and he looked to Ron and Hermione. Both of them were looking up now, their faces white and scared.

"Isn't this funny, Harry? It really is, isn't it?" Voldemort asked cruelly. He was smirking wretchedly.

Harry wouldn't. He couldn't. Ron and Hermione? How could he ever hurt them? He felt sick to his stomach. Voldemort laughed again.

"You look ill, Harry. Is this too much to ask? Because if it is, I'll just kill them now. It will be no trouble at all."

Ron let out a small gasp.

Voldemort conjured a chalice and held it out to Harry. "Take it, Harry. The incantation is _Sang Extrait_."

"No," Harry whispered. He couldn't do it. Not Ron and Hermione.

"Take the chalice, Harry."

He wouldn't. He looked to Ron and Hermione, who were staring back at him. Hermione's eyes were wide and frightened. She inhaled deeply and nodded at him. With a shaking hand, Harry reached for the chalice.

"Good boy," Voldemort said. "You're learning to take orders. Now fill it. The girl first."

Hermione began to cry again. Ron put his hand on her shoulder.

Harry wouldn't. He would rather die than hurt his friends. He began to look around frantically. Was there no way out of here?

"Do it now, Harry," Voldemort whispered.

"No," Harry said very quietly.

"Do it, or they both die."

"I won't!" he said, as forcefully as he could.

Voldemort smiled and raised his wand to Ron.

"Harry," Hermione whispered, "you must."

"I can't," Harry said to her. He felt his throat swell as a large lump formed inside of it.

"Harry, please," Hermione said, a tear trickling down her cheek.

Harry choked on a sob. His face burned. He felt like he would be sick at any moment. Voldemort was still smiling.

"Listen to her, Harry. She's a smart girl."

Harry could hardly hold his wand up. He could barely utter the incantation. "_S-sang ex-extrait_," he said finally.

Hermione gasped, and stared blankly back at him. The large chalice in his hand slowly filled to the brim with her warm, red blood.

Harry was sobbing freely now. He hated himself for what he was doing. Death would surely be better than this. Couldn't Voldemort just kill him now?

He emptied the chalice into the cauldron.

"Twice more," Voldemort said.

He spoke the incantation again, this time with more difficulty. The expression on Hermione's face became more unreadable and her eyes hooded. The sick feeling in Harry's stomach only worsened.

Ron looked at Harry. His mouth was slightly opened. He looked tired and scared. Harry looked into his best friend's eyes. _I'm sorry,_ he tried to say. Ron bowed his head silently.

Harry didn't think he would be able to perform the final spell. He was sure if he opened his mouth he would be sick.

"Harry," Voldemort whispered, urging him on.

Harry raised his wand a final time. "_Sang extrait_."

The chalice filled for the third time. Hermione began to waver in her spot, her eyes flickering slightly. Then, her head fell dropped and her body fell sideways as she lost conscience.

"NO!" Harry yelled, running to his friend as Ron too lunged for her body.

Voldemort's laugh sounded through the tomb, penetrating its stone walls, chilling the night air outside.

Harry sat up quickly in bed. He was sweating and his heart was racing. That had been the third time since he had arrived back at Privet Drive that he had had that dream. He glanced over to Ron and Hermione, who were sleeping silently in their respective cots. Harry lied back down, and allowed Ron's rhythmic snores to lull him back to sleep.

**A/N: This fic was based on a dream that I had not too long ago. I've been wanting to write it for some time now. I hope it wasn't too confusing and I hope you enjoyed it. Please review and let me know what you thought!**


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